Page 9 of Made for Wilde
I towel off quickly and wrap my damp hair in a messy bun, then pull on my uniform—a pair of black shorts and TheSummit’s signature black tank top with the logo emblazoned across the front. I assess myself in the mirror and decide I need a little makeup. Just enough to ensure good tips without looking like I’m trying too hard. I apply mascara to lengthen my lashes, a touch of blush to warm my cheeks, and tinted lip balm for a natural flush.
Perfect balance between professional and approachable.
I grab my purse, keys, and my thick coat and then head out the door.
The Summit is only a ten-minute walk from our apartment, which is another reason I took the job.
The evening air has a bite to it as I make my way down Main Street. Cooper Heights comes alive at night, especially as it gets closer to the weekend. Students from the university crowd the sidewalks, laughing and planning their weekend adventures. I pull my jacket tighter around my shoulders and quicken my pace.
The Summit looms ahead, its sleek modern architecture standing out among the more rustic buildings surrounding it. It’s three stories of tinted windows and polished stone, with a neon sign that pulses in the gathering darkness. I slip through the employee entrance and punch in my code.
“Charlotte! Thank goodness you’re here.” Clay Dover’s voice booms across the empty bar. He’s a mountain of a man with a shaved head and tattoos covering his massive forearms. Despite his intimidating appearance, he’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.
“I’m not late, am I?” I check my phone. Ten minutes early, actually.
“No, no.” Clay runs a hand over his head, a nervous habit I’ve noticed whenever he’s worried. “Ruby just called. She’s having contractions.”
My eyes widen.
“Is she in labor? The baby’s not due for another month!”
“Probably Braxton Hicks,” he says, though the worry in his eyes suggests he’s not convinced. “But with her blood pressure issues, the doctor wants me to bring her in just to be safe.”
I set my purse under the bar and tie an apron around my waist.
“Go. I’ve got this.”
“You sure?” Clay glances around the empty bar, then at the door. “Thursday nights get busy, and I don’t like leaving you alone.”
“I’ve handled busy nights before,” I assure him, already checking the liquor levels and ice bins. “Besides, Mick will be here to help with security if things get rowdy.”
Clay hesitates, then pulls the bar keys from his pocket and hands them to me.
“Call me if anything happens. And don’t let anyone from upstairs give you trouble.”
By “upstairs,” he means the second and third floors, the parts of The Summit that give it its reputation. The second floor houses a high-end casino that caters to the wealthy ranchers and businessmen of Cooper Heights. The third floor is something else entirely. It’s a members-only sex club that I pretend doesn’t exist.
What happens up there stays up there, and I’m perfectly happy keeping it that way.
“I’ve got it under control,” I say, giving him a gentle push toward the door. “Go take care of Ruby.”
Clay’s face softens at his wife’s name.
“Thanks, Charlotte. I owe you one.”
Once he’s gone, I go through my opening routine. I check the beer taps, stock the fridges, and cut fresh fruit for cocktails. By the time I flip the sign to “Open,” the bar is gleaming and ready for business.
For the next hour, I fall into the comfortable rhythm of serving drinks and making small talk with the regulars.
Despite what Adrian thinks, I genuinely enjoy this job. The Summit’s first floor is actually pretty classy, with a menu of craft cocktails that rivals any upscale bar in Denver.
When Clay hired me, he took a chance on someone with zero bartending experience. The previous bartender, Sami, had quit unexpectedly after marrying some famous rock star who lives in town. Clay needed someone fast, and I needed money for beauty school.
It was perfect timing.
“Can I get a Macallan, neat?”
I turn around, and my heart leaps into my throat.
